Exposition
"Hi! What's your name? I'm Chuck," some bubbly boy next to Newt asked. Newt sighed. He did not want to deal with this. This boy had to be only twelve or thirteen. Why was he placed next to him on the bus? He guessed he was a seventh grader—this school served seventh through twelfth. "I'm Newt," he said, and turned towards the window to watch the houses go by, and hopefully give this kid the hint that his conversation was unwanted. "Oh! That's a funny name!" he chuckled, and sat quietly for a moment and swung his legs.
". . . My mom told me not to ask things like this, but, if you don't mind telling me, what do need those for?" The young boy pointed to his mobility aids, just fancy crutches, really. Newt wore baggy jeans to conceal his leg, which anyone could clearly tell was seriously messed up, been that way for a long time now. "I do mind telling you." Newt turned further away.
His parents had moved to the US when he was 13, and then died in a car crash when he was 14, along with his younger sister. He lived on the streets for a few years, and soon his arms were littered with scars. Why? He didn't really know why. He wanted to, and it felt good, so he did. Late last year, he'd jumped off a cliff, only the cliff wasn't as tall as it had seemed, and he landed right on his left heel, absolutely splintering his leg. He remembered laying on the sleet, brain rattled from the fall, and staring at his split open leg, bone visible, before he passed out from pain.
Next thing he knew, he was in a hospital, being told that he had undergone surgery to fix his leg best they could, but that he would likely have to use a cane at the very best for the rest of his life, and probably mobility aids for the next few years, and he might never even get past those. They put him in a home, but since almost no one would want to adopt a 16 year old boy, they instead decided to oversee him at a boarding school.
"Oh . . . I'm sorry," Chuck said, sounding genuine. That lasted five seconds. "Hey, where are you from?" Newt had a quite noticeable accent. "Lived in London till I was 13." Bloody hell, why didn't this kid know how to shut up? "Oh, that's cool! Did you like it?" Newt nodded, pursing his lips, near tears. "Look, kid, I really don't want to talk about this right now." His voice wavered. Chuck didn't talk for the rest of the ride, praise the Lord.
Newt got off the bus and checked his schedule (he had missed orientation) then walked his way to his first class. He thought he got some stares and whispers, but quite frankly, everyone always felt like that.
His first hour was on the basement level, and he had to ask a teacher where the elevator was. Sure, he could go down or up stairs, but it was a hassle and hurt.
He was late to class. Just his luck.
He walked into the classroom after someone opened the door again. A rather cute, someone, actually. A boy. Short brown hair. "Thanks . . ." Newt mumbled, and used his crutches to go where the teacher directed him.
Newt went through his classes, and then followed his map to his dorm. He used his key to unlock the door and stepped inside, finding several boys similar to his age inside, all within a year of him, most of which hed seen in his classes, the bus, or in the halls. When he hobbled in, he got a few stares, and then a few averted eyes, in rapid succession. "Geez, lively crowd we got," Newt joked, and then set down his book bag and sat on a couch that no one else was near.
"Oh my God, he's British . . ." an Asian boy with gelled hair whispered, jaw hanging slack. "My God, he has ears. Yes, I lived there till I was 13. I don't wanna talk about it." He didn't want a repeat of the Chuck situation. "Ohhhkay." The Asain boy swung his legs—'Chuck,' his mind hissed—and started counting everyone. "Hey! Everyone's here! Alright, gather round, we're going to say our names and one thing about ourselves!" "You boys be nice . . ." the resident adult said. "That sounds like an excellent idea, Minho. Say your ages and grades, too."
The teacher ushered everyone into a large circle—earning groans from the boys—and stated the rules—more groans. He introduced himself as Mr. Wick. Basically lights out at ten, and no making out. A few boys snickered at that. 'Blasted,' Newt thought half sarcastically and half not. 'I was really looking forward to doing that.'
"I'll start!" Minho grinned. "I'm Minho, and I was born in Korea! Im 17 and in 11th grade!" Some more boys went—Gally, Siggy (if yall dont know, that's frypan), Winston, Alby. Then it was Newt's turn. "Um . . . I'm Newt, and I . . . I . . . Um . . . I . . . I don't know!" "Oh, come on, Newt, I'm sure you're a very interesting person," Mr. Wick urged him. Newt's mind was entirely blank and he was frozen. He suddenly started crying and he stood and went and locked himself in the bathroom.
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